Promise
by Secret Agent Codename Bob
Summary: "He had counted six of Penguin's lackeys, two police detectives, a butler and now a child. It was like the set-up to a bad joke. Funny how quickly life can turn into one of those." A collection of one-shots all based upon some of Ed's favourite riddles. Part of the 'What Am I' series. Nygmobblepot. Post-Season Two.


_~ The cost of making only the maker knows ~  
~ Valueless if bought, but sometimes traded ~  
~ A poor man may give one as easily as a king ~  
~ When one is broken pain and deceit are assured ~_

 _~ What am I? ~_

Ed's modest apartment had never seen so much activity. For so long it had been such a dull, quiet space for Ed to begrudgingly return to after the GCPDs doors were closed to him each night. But then, suddenly it was transformed: his apartment saw the murder of Miss Kringle, the rescue of the Penguin and was currently present for the planning of an assassination attempt. He had counted six of Penguin's lackeys, two police detectives, a butler and now a child. It was like the set-up to a bad joke.

Funny how quickly life can turn into one of those.

Ed had tried to take a back seat in the flurry of activity after he'd driven the three men from the GCPD to his apartment. You know, try not to look like he was actively engaged in a criminal coup against the Mayor of Gotham. After all, he was still innocent little Edward Nygma, still on the side of the good guys, definitely hadn't been aiding and abetting one of the most powerful figures of the criminal underworld.

A wolf in sheep's clothing pretending it only knew how to bleat.

The thought sent a little thrill of adrenaline through him. But still, he needed to be careful. He was getting enough heat from Doctor Thompkins about Miss Kringle and he really couldn't afford any further suspicion falling at his door.

 _but where's the fun in getting away with something if no one suspects you_

Ed pushed his glasses further up his nose. No. Right now was not the time to be clever. Just because he'd indulged some of the darker crevices of his psychi did not mean he was about to have his chance to discover who he truly was cut short because he took an unnecessary risk.

 _still not quite convincing Edward_

Unfortunately, he had to agree.

Ed distracted himself by making tea. The reason for this was threefold; firstly, Ed always found tea-making an enjoyable experience - watching the leaves contaminate clear water, studying the progression of dark granules distorting and darkening the liquid, never failed to make Ed feel a little more at peace. Sophistication and necessity blending to create a beautiful caffeinated beverage. The smell reminded him of work.

Secondly, offering tea to the unlikely group of conspirators was the perfect excuse to listen in.

And finally, it was incredibly entertaining.

Lucius Fox and Alfred acquiesced to the proffered drink, if somewhat confusedly. Ed enjoyed the slightly surprised expression Alfred made after his first sip - oh yes, Mr English, I can make a damn good cup of tea. The six henchmen unsurprisingly declined, some more rudely than others. Jim's response was quite amusing - a non-verbal, wide eyed stare which clearly asked "are you crazy". Ed just smiled.

 _oh, Detective Gordon, you have no idea_

"Nygma, right now I'd rather drink my own piss than your _tea_. Now shove it and stop listening in."

Immediately Ed's smile fell, replaced by something far darker which Detective Harvey Bullock missed entirely because he was already looking away. Trust Bullock to ruin his good mood. Ed tried very hard to resist crushing the delicate china cup with his fingers.

He turned to catch a glimpse of Oswald staring at the Detective, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Ed saw his finger twitch over the trigger of his rifle. The sight of that tiny, yet anything but insignificant movement caused his heart to stutter within his chest. Maybe he wasn't quite ready to shed his sheep's disguise just yet. Not when he was so surrounded by the most ferocious wolves.

He retired from the group, deciding a sour mood combined with police detectives could be an unnecessary risk. Who knew what would slip out. Instead of snooping under Bullock's ever watchful glare he sat on his bed and stared into his rejected cup, hands shaking ever so slightly.

 _pathetic_

Ed's mind was what defined him. Ever since he was a child his extraordinary brain - because it _was_ extraordinary - had worked far more like a piece of machinery than an organ, more mechanical than natural. Without it he would have been nothing. Yet despite that brilliance there was more often than not something slightly off-kilter about his mind, like two cogs of an engine that didn't _quite_ fit but had been smashed together and told to work. Sometimes trying to think at a speed that didn't make him want to throw up was like trying to drive with the handbrake on.

 _weak_

Sometimes that grind, that perpetual shrill screeching couldn't be ignored; the smell of burning rubber, putrid and foul overwhelmed his senses till he couldn't breathe anymore. That quiet but insistent whine at the back of his skull right at that moment - that was it.

 _failure_

Ed couldn't make his mind go blank, he never had been able to. It was what made him brilliant. No matter how sorely he wished he could sometimes he couldn't stop himself thinking. But he could, to some extent control _what_ he had to think about.

So, to prevent himself from passing out Edward Nygma settled for spending the following fifteen minutes intently cataloguing the exact shade of the slowly cooling tea _somewhere between buff and camel needs more milk next time how far would sugar dilute or concentrate the colour remember to experiment later_ and analysing the pattern on the china cup _little green shoots dotting the ceramic distances between each mathematically perfect did he really have to get his china out normal tea cups would have sufficed but no Oswald deserves the best so china it was_ and every second felt like a decade but it was fine because _no one notices you anyway no one sees you no one wants you just wait till they've left till you're alone always alone always always_

"Ed."

He almost dropped the cup.

He had to blink a few times to clear his vision of the haze and, like a ghost becoming material and real and whole, Oswald Cobblepot's face emerged out of the darkness before him. His voice had slashed through his thoughts like a knife; Ed could practically feel the scar tissue in his frontal lobe. It was such a sweet pain, so welcome after his dizzying mental free fall.

"Mr Penguin."

Oswald cast a glance over his shoulder and Ed realised with a start that the room was almost empty, save for a lone member of Penguin's goons, left behind. He was watching the corridor, not too inconspicuously listening in.

Ed's stomach lurched at the realisation: this was it.

"Well, friend," Oswald said, attention flicking back to the man before him, "I just wanted to-"

"I never was, am always to be, no one ever saw me, nor ever will and yet I am the confidence of all who live and breathe."

Oswald's jaw fell slack, disbelief souring his face.

"Are you...are you asking me a riddle? _Now_?"

Ed licked his lips, heart hammering in his chest. Panic. Panic because he knew exactly where this conversation was going and he was not ready to have it.

"Do you give up?" His voice trembled a little. Oswald heard, Ed could see it in his eyes. Steel grey, which had burned in those irises since he first came home with Jim Gordon in tow, softened ever so slightly.

Ed despised that look. It spoke of gentleness, compassion, sympathy, none of which Ed wanted from him. No, he wanted Oswald to burn for him, burn with him, scorch and sear the flesh away with the purest heat imaginable until there was nothing left, flesh and sinew gone and Oswald could rearrange all those charred bones in whatever way he liked. And then he would let Ed do the same to him.

Those flames which danced for Galavan should _roar_ for Ed.

"I…"

"Tomorrow." Ed licked his lips once again, this time catching the way the other's eyes darted down, following the movement before lifting. His heartbeat quickened. "The answer is tomorrow."

Oswald gave a short, sharp sigh.

"Ed, I really haven't got time to spare on games-"

"Come back. Tomorrow." Ed shifted forwards on the bed, placing the cup on the covers beside him. Every line of his face felt pinched, like cling film stretched too tight. "Don't die tonight."

Oswald scoffed, a light huff of amused air which slapped Ed in the face.

"Ed, I'm not the one who's going to die tonight."

The taller man's expression didn't waver. "I mean it."

Oswald blinked, the one corner of his mouth which had slowly been crawling upwards falling. Ed watched as the mask of the Penguin slipped away and Oswald looked out from beneath: energy drained from his face, the heavy weight of exhaustion and pain pulling the lines on his grey skin. The sudden reminder that Oswald had been shot only a short time ago hit Ed like a punch to the gut. Strange, how easy it was to forget the real reason for Oswald being in his apartment at all.

It had always felt like a pretense.

"I've survived so much already, friend. Galavan is not about to take something else from me, let alone my life."

Ed felt his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, endless words and demands and pleas cycling through his mind like catherine wheels only to dry up on his lips. Dust and ash. That was all his oh so brilliant mind could provide him at the moment he needed it most.

Oswald stared long and hard at Ed, searching for...something. Ed stared back defiant, or perhaps just pleading, but whatever the other was looking for Ed knew instinctively he couldn't give it to him. The shorter man pursed his lips, gave a short little nod, straightened up-

 _No! No - no! No No no no nononononono_

Ed's heart turned to ice, his stomach a nest of snakes squirming, writhing and he couldn't breathe because he knew _he knew_

 _as soon as Oswald Cobblepot walks through that door you lose this_

 _you lose him_

"Oswald!" Ed's hand shot out and grasped the others' arm, seemingly of its own volition. He felt the other man instantly tense but he didn't shrug him off. Instead, the Penguin turned his head and waited patiently for Ed to speak. Indulging him, even now.

"Promise me." Ed felt so foolish, infinitesimally small compared to this giant of Gotham. But he had to have this, needed this or else he was going to do something stupid to stop this from happening like knock him out or go with him or kiss him.

 _so so stupid_

"Please."

Something flickered behind Oswald's eyes, far too quick and mercurial for even Ed's brain to capture and analyse. Ed released his hand from the other's arm, sudden embarrassment causing a burst of heat to bloom across the back of his neck. Yet before he could pull the limb back to himself, to his immense surprise, the Penguin took it in his own.

"I give you my word, Edward Nygma." Oswald's grip was tight and firm. Ed returned in kind. "I promise to you I will not die, Galavan will be dead by sunrise and I will see you again."

The contact sent a thrill along his skin, almost electric and he could have sworn Oswald's eyes were about to swallow him whole. Storm clouds gathered in those irises and their black pupils, dark and devouring, dilated ever so slightly. In the silence which threatened to electrocute him Ed wondered how many people had breathed their last breath staring into these eyes.

 _oh to be so lucky_

"I'll hold you to that." Ed tried to smile but it came out far uglier; twisted, desperate.

Oswald's thumb traced the outline of Ed's vein, nail lightly grazing the soft skin. The smile he returned was also too clenched, too pained.

"I never break my word."

They stayed in that tableaux for what felt like centuries; arms outstretched, stock-still and silent. Something lay under the surface, something dark and mutual and hungry which the two had been skirting around for days. Ed felt like he was about to break, about to shatter into a thousand pieces and how was it that Oswald could make him so weak, so vulnerable but also so strong, so much more, so much more _him_.

 _let me in, let's break together, let's vivisect, eviscerate one another until we're nothing and everything less and more oblivion and eternity just don't go don't leave or we'll never get this chance again Gotham kills everything good and this is good so good Oswald please-_

"Oi! Penguin! Do you want Galavan to kill Bruce Wayne? Get that feathered ass down here now or we're leaving without you."

Ed had never known rage quite so toxic as this before.

 _one day I am going to kill you Harvey Bullock and I am going to enjoy every single second of it_

Ed couldn't be sure which of them let go first. On reflection it seemed that, one moment, the two were touching, one blinding point of contact which felt like the centre of gravity, tugging and pulling, unavoidable and irresistible, and the next- nothing. Their hands lay at their sides. Unconnected. Unacknowledged. Unspoken.

Ed wanted to scream.

"Duty calls." He didn't bother trying to smile now, instead letting his expression descend into bleak, grim displeasure. What was the point in pretending? Oswald would know.

"Yes. It does."

With the uttering of those words Ed watched whatever had been alive in Oswald's eyes burn up, watched as that beautiful, incandescent life was incinerated by the flames reserved for Theo Galavan alone.

Envy was a truly ugly emotion.

The Penguin hoisted the rifle up onto his shoulder and was already limping towards the door, purpose written in every line of his body. Ed drinked up every last second.

He paused for just a moment at the threshold. Without turning around he spoke, voice like smoke.

"Make something up about me. I...I deceived you. I betrayed your trust. You innocently believed my intention to change my ways. It was an honest mistake." Oswald exhaled and his whole body shook with it. "It wouldn't do if both of us ended up in custody. What would be the point in that."

And with that he was gone.

Ed waited for a full two minutes after he heard the click of the latch, once the shuffling sound had receded down the corridor. He counted every second, allowed the tally of numbers to fill every crevice of his mind so he wouldn't have to think.

He didn't break down. He didn't scream. Instead, Edward Nygma went straight to the mirror and practised his story. Oswald was right. After all, Ed didn't have the best track record with spontaneous deceptions and this needed to be delivered perfectly. He said the words again and again, over and over until his lips felt chapped, throat sore, vision blurred. It was almost enough to distract himself from running through every possible eventuality, imagining every different form of death which Oswald could suffer that night, calculating the exact probability of the Penguin's survival.

 _no matter what happens now you have lost him forever_

It was almost enough.

The next day dawned. Oswald hadn't died, Ed knew that much. Instead Galavan was dead, shot through the skull, body beaten to a bloody pulp and desecrated beyond reason. There was an inquest to be held regarding Jim Gordon's involvement.

He was amazed how calm he felt through the whole thing.

He knew Oswald would be on the run and, by his parting comment, he had the clear intention of avoiding casting suspicion on Ed. Still, he'd left the door on the latch along with both a platter of biscuits, spicy mustard sandwiches and a first aid kit sitting inside his apartment, just in case.

 _probability of such an event occurring is less than 15%, falling every day he remains on the run_

Still, a man could hope. He kept his nose down, avoided Detective Bullock like the plague and it seemed that everyone had forgotten to ask about his involvement in the affair. They had believed his story. Ed clung to whatever pathetically small hope that there was still a chance; Oswald had delivered on two thirds of his promise and he always kept his word. He had to.

The moment Oswald stepped into the GCPD hall his world shattered.

The Penguin was arrested, bound with with biting handcuffs, put in a jail cell, and Ed was enraged. They were treating him, the _Penguin_ , just like every other petty crook and would-be-criminal who were _nothing_ like Oswald Cobblepot, whose names didn't even deserve to be uttered in the same sentence as his. The whole situation was poison and bile down his throat and he was forced to swallow the nauseating lot, forced to stay hidden in the shadows because Oswald wouldn't want him to be caught.

Finally, after waiting for minutes which passed like eons, he spoke to Oswald. They were clipped words which tasted like ash in his mouth, dissolved on his tongue. It wasn't enough. He couldn't see those eyes, couldn't see if the fire behind them had burned out, couldn't see if he truly had given up hope.

For what felt like the first time in his life Edward Nygma didn't know something crucial, something vital, a puzzle piece which held the answer to everything in the universe. It was terrifying.

" _Arkham. You are insane right?"_

It was in that moment, as Oswald Cobblepot was taken away, that Ed promised himself that he was going to kill James Gordon. Because those five words were the execution order of a man who belonged to _him_. How dare Jim take that away from him, how _dare you Jim I am going to be your undoing I am going to turn everyone who ever loved you, trusted you against you I will take away your reputation your career your sanity I swear to you I will rob you of everything you deem precious because you have taken the most precious thing of all_ -

Oswald wasn't the only person who kept his word.

Ed left the GCPD. Normal time. Nothing suspicious.

Oswald was long gone by then.

As soon as he entered his apartment the first thing he did was throw that fucking china cup across the room and scream and curse and pull at his hair so viciously almost like he was trying to split his skull in two just so his brain could breathe. It was as if he had just strangled Miss Kringle all over again, but the agonising grief of it was being drawn out, like a scratched record, repeated over and over again.

 _ **pathetic**_

 _ **weak**_

 _ **failure**_

 _ **no matter what happens now you have lost him forever**_

Ed doesn't remember how long it lasted. Looking back, it was fuzzy. Dark. Smog had entered his body and it was all he could breathe. The blinding need to hurt someone else, anything to stop feeling so powerless was crackling through his blood like oxygen. Yet, as far as he could tell, he didn't give in to that urge. Not then at least.

No, instead Ed found himself in a pokey little shop he walked past everyday. A florist. It wasn't anything fancy or expensive but that didn't matter. He didn't need beauty. He needed to buy lilies.

Because, even after everything, even though he was lost to him, Oswald had kept his promise.

Ed had his own promises to keep.

 _~ Promise ~_


End file.
